


Treason Never Felt So Good

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: “Is this what the free folk do?” Robb asked, looking again from Ygritte to Jon’s dark eyes.“The free folk do as they please,” she said. “Is this what you please, Lord Stark?”





	

Robb did not know what to think of this girl—this _wildling_ —Jon brought back from the Wall.

Ygritte, he calls her. She has no titles, no house, not even a bastard surname. 

“Kissed by fire,” she said when Robb met her, pulling through his curls with a hand. It had been so long since he had the touch of a woman, not since his fumblings with Jeyne, and he shamefully found himself thinking of Ygritte later, alone in front of the fire in his chamber. He wrapped a hand around himself and wondered if she was that color everywhere. 

Jon showed him his scars from the time she shot him with arrows, and they laughed about it and kissed, full on the lips and out in bright daylight for everyone to see. Robb thought of the men who fired arrows into him; he could not imagine anything but enmity and contempt for them. 

“You know nothing,” she teased Jon. 

“I know some things,” Jon replied, the tone of his voice rough and dangerous in a way Robb had never heard before. 

“Aye,” she agreed, her cheeks flaming like her hair. 

Robb found himself looking when he shouldn’t be, when she was sparring out in the yard with Jon, taunting him with her words, when she insisted on joining them for a ride out in the woods, when she slid her hand beneath the table during dinner. 

_Jon might see,_ he reminded himself. _He took her. She belongs to him._

And his brother would do naught if he caught his stares, Robb knew, but noticing would be enough. 

He told himself he was just grateful for her presence, since without her jests Winterfell would be too quiet, the remnants of House Stark left alone with the ruined battlements, the kings in their crypt, and the coming snow. 

She stayed with Jon in his chambers. Robb heard the other women whispering, but he paid them no mind. Jon was no lord, and Ygritte no lady. Though they worshipped the old gods, the free folk did not stand in front of trees and say meaningless words, make empty promises to bind each other in marriage. Robb could not help but think maybe they had the right of it. 

He’d tried to marry Jeyne after each and every one of their nights of indiscretion, offered her a place at his side, insisted, even. He hadn’t cared if it was by the old gods or the new. But she refused, for her honor, her family’s, his, whoever’s, and the nature of war carried them apart. 

The memory of Jeyne already seemed like a dream, with her slender hands that fit so easily in his larger ones, the waves of her hair, the smile she saved for him behind closed doors, the sighs she made while he moved deep inside of her, the warm wetness of her cunt. If it were not for this stupid, useless, endless war, she would be here with him, ruling Winterfell and the North, maybe round with his child by now. Then again, if it weren’t for this war in the first place, he might have never run across her, but it made no matter. 

Instead he wandered the keep like a ghost when he couldn’t sleep, haunted by his thoughts of her, of all of them who’d he’d lost in this madness, reminding himself of the piles of stone, the cold halls and empty rooms he had in their places. 

On one such night, he found himself passing their chambers when Ygritte threw open the door. 

“Come now,” she said, pulling him in before Robb could protest. The fire was low in the hearth, the room dim. 

“I’ve seen you walking at night,” she said. She wore only a thin shift, the fabric clinging to her shape, the peaks of her breasts evident, but she made no effort to hide herself from his gaze. Unlike Jeyne, he remembered, who, despite all they shared, still blushed when he looked. “Looking for something? For someone?”

“He’s the Lord of Winterfell,” said Jon. He stepped up behind her, wearing less than she did. “He has the right to walk his own castle.”

“I never said he didn’t,” she said. “Just that I’ve seen.” 

Robb noted the rumpled furs on the bed, Jon in just his smallclothes, and Ygritte’s hair, even more disordered than usual. 

He turned to leave. “I’ll—”

“You won’t.” 

Robb stopped short, frozen halfway between where Jon stood by the dying fire and the shut door. Ygritte took the opportunity to walk a close circle around him, peering up into his face, scanning her eyes down over his tunic and boots. 

“You are the saddest king I’ve ever seen,” she said, appraising him. “Handsome, but sad.” 

Robb stood still, heeding the advice he remembered from his father if he ever came across a bear or a mountain lion in the woods. Ygritte might not have been any one of those predators, but the way she inspected him made him feel just the same. 

“Why do you walk?” she asked again. “You could have many a woman warming your bed at night. Perky Polly, from the kitchens? Simpering Sally, who mends the clothes? Curvy Clara, who fetches water for your baths? Have you a crown, but no eyes? Or is it other parts you lack?” 

He felt her rake over him with lascivious eyes. 

“I’ve seen you looking, too,” she said. “At me.”

Robb’s heart thudded. He stole a glance at Jon. He should run, he knew. Call an end to this, say something, do anything. 

He didn’t move. 

“Why’s that?” she asked. 

He’d shouted directives on the battlefield, commanded the great lords of the North, handed down sentences of death, but when it came to her, the words stuck in his throat. “Just c—curious.” 

“Hmm,” she said. “I knew a crow who was curious once. He stands there now.” She inclined her head towards Jon. “What about?” 

Even though barely any flame drifted from the fire in the grate, the air felt too thick. “Sorry?”

“Why are you so curious?” She resumed her pacing, this time more slowly. “Curious about what?” 

Jon finally left the hearth, padding towards them like a wolf. “He wants you.” 

“Ahhh,” said Ygritte, drawing out the syllable. Robb wished she would forever, just to keep him from having to speak again. “What say you, Lord King?” 

He looked to Jon again, who deflected her question back to him. Ygritte stood between him and the door, and Jon, though more distant, the rest of the room. There was no use denying anything now, not when his breeches were about to give him away either way.

He nodded. 

Ygritte’s bright, expressive eyes blinked. If she seemed in any other way surprised, she didn’t show it. “Are you a maid, Lord Stark?” 

He glanced at Jon again, and his throat bobbed as he replied, “No.” 

“No? Very good…” The corners of her mouth turned up. “Lords and Kings follow no rules? They take no vows? Or they just don’t keep them?”

_The honorable ones do,_ he wanted to say. What did that make him? 

“Ygritte, the rules are different here,” Jon spoke when Robb did not. “He’s the Lord of Winterfell. The King in the North. That means something here.” 

“Lord, King, no matter,” she said. “He’s still a man.”

_Yes,_ he wanted to say, the word burning in his throat. He stared straight ahead, at the unmade bed, the rough-hewn stones in the wall, the wood of the floorboards, anything to avoid peeking down at the tenting fabric of his breeches. Could she see? Did Jon? 

His eyes fell back to Ygritte. She ran her tongue along her upper lip, fire dancing in her eyes and something else too, cunning and covetous. 

“Come here, then,” she said. “Don’t be shy.” 

She reached for him by the laces of his jerkin and slid her hand south to his crotch. The throaty sound of her laughter made him flush to his roots, but he couldn’t help the jump of his cock. 

“Oh, he likes it,” she whispered, and he dared to glance at Jon’s face. _He likes it, too,_ Robb realized. 

“I think we can make a kneeler of him yet,” Ygritte said with a wicked grin, stepping back to take in his full length again. His cock strained to follow her touch, and he wished he could turn away, that his eyes weren’t so greedy, that his body didn’t want so much. 

She didn’t look like Jeyne, or the daughters of the northern lords or courtly ladies he’d met at the dances hosted in Winterfell in his youth, but he found himself riveted all the same. Her hair lacked the smooth sheen of Sansa’s or the soft waves of Jeyne’s, her lips were rubbed red rather than plumped soft pink, and even in the shadows, he could see the faint bruises where Jon’s blunted wood sword had tapped her on the shoulder while they scuffled in the yard, the marks on her knees where she’d fallen and slid, laughing, across the rocks in the godswood when he’d given her chase, the healed scar left by Jon’s dirk on her throat Robb could tell had faded with time, but would nevertheless be there to stay. 

He wondered why the rest bothered with painting their faces and their elaborate hairstyles, why they spent time, thousands of brushstrokes to untangle twisted strands, why, when they could look like her, wild and raw and free… 

Jon looked near the same, his chest corded with muscle, coarse hair sprung up where he’d been smooth before, his curls longer than they’d ever been when they lived in Winterfell as a family, the scars new, too—his eye, shoulder, hand—the sharp, straight lines of his body a perfect complement to the way she almost seemed to shimmer in the darkness. 

It wasn’t like he’d never seen Jon naked before. They’d grown up together, played with swords beneath the blazing summer sun in very yard outside this window, shared beds on the coldest nights when they were young, gone swimming in the hot pools together, but he’d never seen him quite like this, strength and sinew, heat and hardness. 

“Is this what the free folk do?” Robb asked, looking again from her to Jon’s hungry eyes. Theon had told tales of such a thing, but Robb had never truly believed them. And he’d never heard of anything this improper, of two men, much less his brother and his wildling… 

“The free folk do as they please,” Ygritte said. “Is this what you please, Lord Stark?” 

Was it? For Jon to be with a wilding was one thing, but for him, quite another… And was Jon going to watch? Participate? It seemed foolish to ask, and he didn’t want this to stop… 

Even as he wanted, he didn’t—this was Jeyne over again, his desire getting the better of him, this time with Jon as a witness. 

Robb chanced a look at Jon again. 

“Don’t look to him,” Ygritte said. “Just because he stole me don’t mean he owns me. He would leave if he wanted.” 

Ygritte left him to tangle herself around Jon, placing one hand on his chest, letting her other snake down to toy with the laces on his smallclothes. Robb watched as she kissed him, while Jon pushed the thin pieces of fabric that held up her shift off her shoulders. She let it slip down to the floor and kicked it aside, arching backward against Jon’s chest so he could slide his palms down her body, one staying at her hip and the other spreading across her stomach just above the mess of red curls between her legs, holding her to him. 

Jon swept aside the knotted length of her hair, exposing the ivory column of her throat, and dragged his tongue up the curve of her shoulder to the juncture where it met her neck, his eyes all fire as he glanced at Robb. Her neck stayed still as Jon continued upward, laving and kissing, his words an inaudible growl in her ear, Robb’s own throat bobbing in sharp contrast as he struggled to fight down a groan. 

It wasn’t like he’d never seen this before either. Theon had taken him once, laughing, behind the barn where one of the serving girls spread her legs for a stableboy in the stacks of hay. He’d felt disgusting for watching that, even for a moment before turning away, but this… this was different. This was an invitation, an exhibition, a performance to be consumed. 

It didn’t matter what excuse he told himself though—he found he couldn’t look away even if he wanted, wishing Jon’s hands were his as he touched her, slow and deliberate. He wondered how long he’d have to watch before he went insane with need…

Jon made a sound in his throat, and Robb found himself again stifling one to match. Was it supposed to be like this? Had the gods made him sick, twisted, or was it truly as the free folk claimed, that life’s pleasures were to be enjoyed, rather than denied? Is this how Jon had felt, warring with his vows, his honor? Did he experience this distress every time he coupled with her, his mind laden with thoughts of his brothers at Castle Black, the hundred Robb had sent to the Wall in his place, some of whom would certainly perish fighting her people, the eternal enemies of the Night’s Watch, of House Stark? 

Maybe, but he couldn’t ask, considering Jon was otherwise engaged at the moment, and he certainly didn’t seem to regret his decision, his face buried in her hair. _How could he?_ Robb thought, watching Ygritte’s hands reach back to wrap around Jon’s neck and arse. 

“Are you joining us?” 

Robb stared. He could still leave. Make a run for it, not even bother to find his clothes. He would survive the cold, the embarrassment, even. 

He didn’t know if he could survive this. 

He felt as though he were melting from the inside out, like the fire that dying in the grate now coming alive inside him, the rest of the world a haze of her red hair and Jon’s dark eyes. 

It was easier than he thought to walk up and put a hand on Jon’s arm. The muscle twitched beneath his palm, or maybe that was his own hand shaking as he lost his resolve, he wasn’t sure. 

She took his free hand and curled it around her hip opposite from Jon’s, using hers to pull out the laces from his shirt. He expected her to be rough, somehow, with uneven skin and callused hands, but she was just as soft as Jeyne, and just as warm. 

“They are more like us than you know,” Jon had told him when they’d stayed up late into the night the evening he’d returned to Winterfell, when they had talked of all Robb had seen in the south and Jon in the north, both of the living and the dead. He saw that now, as his body fit up against Ygritte’s better than he could have imagined, her confident fingertips igniting his skin more than Jeyne’s shy, tepid touches… 

He should have been brave like Jon and stolen her, he knew. _Or maybe Jeyne should have been brave like Ygritte,_ he thought, _brave enough to come with._

“What does he know, Jon Snow?” she said in a soft voice that sent a thrill down his spine, switching back to her usual lover. “As little as you? Less?” 

Robb wished he could have spoken for himself, that the words could escape from his strangled throat, but they didn’t, so Jon spoke instead. 

“You can try to deny her, but she won’t go.” 

Robb looked at the defiance in her eyes, that ever enticing insolence, pure persistence, and he understood. So different from demure Jeyne, from any girl he’d met, bold brashness that beckoned him, that made him think things he shouldn’t, that lured him to places he knew he couldn’t go. 

She finally finished unwinding the laces and let them drop to the floor, folding back the collar of his tunic to expose his chest. 

“Was he always stronger than you?” she mused, tossing the question over her shoulder to Jon. 

The corners of Jon’s mouth twitched in response. “How do you know? Do you wish to test us?” 

“Out in the woods?” she asked, the purr in her voice doing nothing to stifle Robb’s growing desire. “With an axe? Or in the yard, with swords? What about here, with those stones over there? No, Jon Snow, I can think of other ways…” 

She smoothed his hand upward along the curve of her body, placing it over her breast, and moved her hands down to his pants. 

“I thought you kneeler kings sat on their thrones all day, fucking whores and drinking wine and eating to their hearts’ content,” she said, running a hand down the firm muscles in his abdomen. “What kind of king are you, then?” 

_A traitorous one,_ he thought, drunk with the feeling of her nipple hardening between his fingers, the flesh soft against his palm. _False and faithless, a rebel and a renegade._

But… was it so bad to want? Was it so bad to have, for once? The other deeds had been done, what was one more? 

“We need them and they need us,” Jon had told him of the wildlings that night, too. He’d nodded then, but he hadn’t really known. 

Yes, _need_ was better. _Needs_ couldn’t be avoided. _Need_ defied choice and evoked necessary action, it took away the question, it gave him a route to be followed. 

_Need,_ he wanted to groan, when her fingers slipped below the fabric and curled around his cock, when she pushed his breeches all the way down, and ordered his boots and tunic off. 

“Do kings perform the Lord’s Kiss, or is that beneath them?” she asked, taking his hand and walking backwards toward the bed, her pale skin glowing in the light of the dying fire. 

Robb watched her lean back against the furs, her movements slow, measured, as she opened her legs to them. 

He felt himself flush. It was stupid, he chastised, for him to feel like a green boy. He’d done this. He’d touched Jeyne there. He knew what it felt like. 

But not like this. Not with Jon aroused beside him, not with this kind of audacity. He’d never seen, not really, and maybe that was good, because he felt heady, covetous at the sight. 

“Show him, Jon Snow. Do it proper,” she ordered. 

He didn’t know what she was asking for, what she waited for with a shiver. He didn’t think anything would have prepared him, though, to see Jon dutifully drop to his knees, and run his tongue up through her folds of soft pink. 

The realization, the existence of something so intimate, so indecent, jolted him, like fire burning through his veins. 

Robb wasn’t sure where to look, at Jon or at her, his tongue licking up her slit while his body tightened, or the way she curved her back and gripped his shoulder, her nails leaving marks that faded when she moved to tug on his hair. He got lost somewhere along the way, no longer able to identify the cause of the pleasure and the effect, if it was the sounds she made when Jon pushed his tongue inside that made Jon’s cock jerk, or if it was the vibrations of his moan that brought about her gasps, or what exactly Jon finally did after minutes that seemed to pass in a blink that prompted her to clench around him with a call of his name on her lips, her legs closing over his shoulders, her hands restlessly gripping his curls. 

Jon pulled away, licking the taste of her from his lips, and Robb didn’t think he’d seen anything more obscene and arousing in his life. 

“Are you afraid, Your Grace?” She sat up, her mouth slanted in a smirk, her long red hair framing her face like the flames that licked his insides. “The King in the North, afraid of a cunt…” 

He’d spent a lifetime sharing with Jon, swords and horses, meals and mead, even clothes and beds in the midst of winter, but never had this thought crossed his mind. He and Jon had never talked about girls, really, not more than a passing fancy at least, and he felt shame for his fascination with this one, this one thing of Jon’s he shouldn’t have, yet so wanted. 

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m…” 

What was he, really? A traitor to the crown of his ancestors he wore on his head, to his family, his brother? Was this what Jon felt, desperate self-loathing, the bite of betrayal, breaking his vows with her? Or was _this_ how Jon felt, scorched, possessed by temptation, ablaze with a delirious sense of desire? 

“You can,” she said. She pushed his hand between her legs. “You will.”

Treason never felt so good. 

She was so soft there, and slick from Jon’s tongue and her reaction to it, and he dared to let himself think about what she would feel like clasped around his cock. 

She writhed against him, drawing him deeper, and he bent closer, their exchange a rhythm, almost a dance, her luring him in, and he conceding, one slight bit after another, following the waves of her body until his lips settled just above his hand.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this—the burst of her wetness against his tongue, the flavor of her overwhelming his senses, the scrub of his beard on her smooth skin, the silkiness that coated his fingers when he slid them away for the slightest second, that the way she sucked in air and raised her back off the bed, pushing herself more fully into his mouth, would encourage him to stroke faster, press harder, give her more in return. 

He was keenly aware of Jon beside him, the sound of his ragged breaths, the heat radiating from his body in the absence of fire, the way his smallclothes barely concealed his cock. Robb knew all that, he recognized all that, but somehow his insides still leapt when Jon reached across his lap and took his length in hand. 

Jon’s hand, though able, was rough and callused, unlike the velvet softness that awaited him beneath his tongue, against his fingers. He imagined the slick heat clutched around him while Ygritte laughed at his delicious torture, her voice teasing with one of the names she called him. Jon slid some of his own wetness that bloomed against his hand down along his shaft, and Robb buried his tongue in her again to stifle a groan. 

“You can touch him, too,” she said, shoving his hand that had crept up her thigh toward Jon. “I don’t own him no more than he owns me.” 

And so he let his hand drift to Jon’s wrist, following the rhythm of his motions. He didn’t need as much guidance as Jeyne did—Jon knew how much pressure to apply, where to grip harder and more gently, when to quicken and slow. 

He squeezed his eyes shut when she pulsed against his tongue, willing himself not to spill on Jon, and waited until she stilled to lean away. 

She sat up, tucking her legs beneath her on the furs, and when she spoke, her voice seemed to drift through his mind like the hazy remnants of the ash in the grate. “What do you want, King Robb?” 

“What do you think I want?” 

“ _Who_ do you want?” She smirked down at them. He’d met many a lady—girls from the north and south, noble and common-born, dressed in silks and jewels and the colors and sigils of ancient, powerful houses—but none of them had ever looked more like a queen than Ygritte did in that moment. “Me or him?” 

He found himself wondering if Jon had truly stolen her or she’d stolen him, understanding the thrill of the danger now, the temptation she offered. Her face neared, and he refused to let himself back away. _That’s what she wants, that’s…_

She sucked on his collarbone, then bit his neck, and moved upward to his lips, and in an instant, that was what he wanted too. 

He wondered if that was the taste of Jon on her tongue, the taste of dishonor, and seduction, or if it was just her, the taste of true winter. 

Ygritte was all the things they said the wildlings were—brash and bold, daring and dangerous, fierce and fiery—and she had turned Jon that way too, but suddenly Robb couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t want those things, why he shouldn’t be that way…

“Tell her what you think,” Jon urged, his voice little more than a growl. “Tell her if you like it. Tell her what you want.” 

“I like your hair,” he said, grimacing as the stupidest compliment spilled from his lips while they slid down her chest. 

“Hmm,” she hummed, her hands on his chest, sliding down his abdomen, between his legs… 

“I’d—I’d like if you touched me there,” he said, not sure that was what he wanted at all, not sure he could hold on, but when she did, he barely kept the rush of air from escaping his throat. 

“I like the way you taste,” he said while she busied herself with his cock. “And—and how warm you feel inside…” 

“You know nothing yet,” she said, her tease usually meant for Jon a murmur in his ear. 

“What…” he started, the words darting away as he rose to join her on the bed, following her hands, chasing her lips as she sat back on her heels. 

“It’s true,” she said. “Do you know what it’s like to be wild? To be free?” 

“Do you know what it’s like to be fucked by a king?” he said before he could stop himself. He didn’t know what to say anymore, what to do, who he was or what this was; he only knew he wanted her and for Jon to watch, though he would have settled for touching Jon or taking an audience as well, anything so this didn’t have to end now. 

She laughed, evidently delighted by his offense, and he looked to Jon, fully aware he must have crossed a line, many lines, more lines than he knew could exist, but Jon gave no notice he heard, his eyes shut in pleasure as Ygritte ran her hands over him too, stroking his hard-on. How many times had Jon enjoyed this, Robb let himself wonder, while he’d lain alone in a cold tower… 

Despite what most seemed to think, there had been many a time he envied Jon—when he’d been able to laugh and joke at the back of the hall while Robb sat up front, forced to look stern and lordly; when Jon had afternoons free to spar outside while Robb waited beside his father, listening to the troubles of the smallfolk; when Jon talked of what he wanted and who he wanted to be, while Robb knew he could and would be one thing, one thing only, but none of those times troubled him with jealousy more so than now. 

“How do you like it, Lord Stark?” she asked in a rough voice that sent tingles down his spine, straight to his groin, making his erection bob against his belly. 

“How do you?” he asked, not truly knowing more than one way himself despite Theon’s tall tales of acrobatics and contortions, which he didn’t quite believe. Would Jon take his turn first, leaving him to watch again, to learn how she liked to be pleasured? Or would he go first in case he served as a disappointment, leaving Jon to finish in the ways he knew how? He didn’t know which he wanted more. Or would she more enjoy watching him and Jon together, directing them according to her wishes… 

“Like a wolf,” she demanded. She said the words as though they were filthy, profane, and Robb found himself more alight than when she’d first discarded her shift, more than when he first touched her. She smirked over her shoulder. “I said you’d kneel.” 

He was powerless to refuse. 

She backed against him, and his body seemed to work of its own accord, filling her, mounting her—he didn’t even know, was that what one would call this? Sinking into her was nothing like swinging a leg over his gelding… 

“They’re part of the North,” Jon had told him. Robb was forced to admit the truth of this now, unable to deny it any longer, not when his body fit together so well with hers like this, like fire taking to kindling.

He’d seen battle, thrust his spear through opposing men, watched Grey Wind rip out throats, and still nothing was more powerful, more vivid, than this, as she moved beneath his hands. It was like a wolf dream and more, all at the same time, his senses alit in a way that both seemed unnatural and primitive. 

A whine escaped his throat, and she responded with a moan. The sounds she made seemed to fill him up with molten heat—Jeyne had been so quiet, he’d never really known if she’d been enjoying it or not, which forced him to stifle his own responses, but now the louder he seemed to express his pleasure, the more she seemed to share hers. 

He reached out for the ends of her hair where it cascaded down her back. It flowed like hewn silk, like the warm water of the pool in the godswood, through his fingers, a sharp contrast to the coarseness of the sounds she made, the unevenness of his breath, the rough snap of his hips.

All his life he’d heard stories of the men beyond the Wall, of their savagery and crudeness, but he saw something else now, grace and beauty and an ethereal elegance as Ygritte motioned for Jon to kneel before her. He understood why Jon had turned his cloak, why he stayed beyond the Wall when he didn’t have to, why he brought her to Winterfell against better judgement: because once he had drowned himself in this, there had been no going back. 

Jon cursed as Ygritte licked up his length, his hand brushing up against Robb’s as he sank one into her hair. It was too much for him to process, so instead he focused on each in turn: the slide of his cock inside her, the sound of her tongue wrapping around Jon, the way her back arched beneath his hands as she leaned forward and tilted back again. 

He opened his eyes, not even having realized they were closed in the first place, to watch Jon, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, both of them at the mercy of this girl who shouldn’t be, who shouldn’t be here, who shouldn’t be like this. He thought of the kings of winter, of how they would be turning over in their graves if they could see him, but what did that matter now when they were stone and steel, dust and bone, and nothing compared to her, and how very, very alive she made him feel… 

He should have felt shame, humiliation, anger, anything besides this state of rapture, this feeling of ecstasy inflamed by the sight of Jon across from him, his darker, rougher mirror image. He’d felt sorry for Jon for so long, imaging his half-brother freezing at the Wall, committed to his post at Castle Black, without a family or friends or a woman, and now he realized it had been him who’d been deprived all along. 

She repositioned herself to take Jon’s cock deeper, and he knew they were both lost. The White Walkers could have shown up outside the walls of Winterfell with their army of Wights, the tower could have caught fire and burned around them, the ghosts of his father and mother could have appeared right then, and none of it would have mattered at all when he was spurting into her, hot streams into her hotter cunt, the winter that plagued them all having no place here, not when his bones seemed to have liquefied, this, whatever this was, melding the three of them like seamless links forged into a chain. 

He slipped from her, still hard—he didn’t know if that would ever ease, lest he completely erase the memory of this night, and all the images and sensations that came with it, from his mind. 

Somewhere, he heard her coaxing Jon through his release, her hand wrapped around his cock now as she whispered, “Did you like that? Did you like watching? Did you like how he fucked me?”

Jon’s only answer came as a growl, a reminder of how his brother was a true wolf, too. She replaced her mouth when Jon spilled, Robb forcing his eyes to open when they tried to close, to focus when they blurred. He wondered if they were trying to protect him from seeing, but he didn’t believe that rationalization; even if he closed them he knew he’d still be able to see Jon’s body pulled taut, the way his lips fell open when Ygritte’s closed around him, her satisfied smirk. 

She settled back on the furs, loose-limbed now, and more demure and domesticated than he’d ever seen, letting Jon pull her to him and tuck her against his chest. 

Robb straightened up to face them, still panting, preparing to ask the question that had nagged him for weeks, really, ever since he saw her pass through the gates, hair blazing, her careless laughter echoing like music off the drab stone walls of Winterfell, ever since he saw Jon enter behind her, the dour Bastard of Winterfell gone, now a man grown in his place, tall and proud in his faded blacks. 

“So is that,” he asked, his tongue loosened by the taste of her that still lingered there, the feeling of the way Jon had gripped his cock, the image of them sprawled in front of him, their warmth in the absence of fire, “How you got Jon to finally smile?”

This time, both of them laughed.


End file.
